closets. They came up to her and asked questions so blatant and gory, even the police hadn’t thought of them. They made her skin crawl. For a while there, Glinda thought she was going to be stuck with them, doing involuntary overtime on Friday night. It seemed grudging to call it only a victory, that she could look out the glass wall of her office now and see nobody in the place at all, except Sam Harrigan standing at the check-out desk with a book in his hand. Sam Harrigan often made Glinda Daniels nervous—had, in fact, been making her especially nervous over the past few weeks—but not because he was the kind of jerk who thought of murder as a spectator sport. He just made her nervous, that was all.
Glinda got her camel’s hair coat from the coat rack in the office’s far left corner, slung it over her arm, and headed out to the desk. Her purse was right there, under the counter next to the extra cards for the check-out pockets. Sam heard her coming and shifted on his feet, standing up a little straighter.
“There you are,” he said. “You were wandering around in there so long, I was afraid you’d taken ill.”
“I’m fine,” Glinda said, and didn’t say: You ought to know, because you could look through the glass at everything I did. Sam had been in and out a lot in the past week—he’d even formally introduced himself and asked her to call him “Sam”—and in that time Glinda had learned something about him she never would have guessed. Sam Harrigan was a socially awkward man. She would have thought he had too much experience for that, what with doing a television show and going on book tours and having movie stars wander in and out of his house, but there it was. Every time he tried to talk to her, he seemed to lose any sense of what he ought to do with his hands.
Glinda put her coat down across the check-out desk and took the book out of his hand. It was called Edible Fungi of North America, and she couldn’t believe he needed it. She couldn’t believe he didn’t own it. She opened its back cover, took out its card, and went searching through the center drawer for her date stamp.
“So,” she said, “you were saying. You were listening to the radio on your way into town—”
Sam shifted on his feet again. “I was listening to ‘Golden Oldies Rock and Roll,’ to tell you the truth. That’s how you know you’re living in a small town, when they interrupt ‘Peppermint Twist’ for a press conference by a Cardinal Archbishop. I was speechless.”
“It’s a Colchester station,” Glinda said drily, “and it’s owned by Catholics. For all you know, the Archdiocese has a piece of it.”
“I try to know as little as possible about the Archdiocese,” Sam said. “It’s like St. Patrick’s Day. Ever since those idiots got caught down in Queens, trying to supply arms to the Irish Republican Army, all I do for St. Pat’s is contribute to the mission fund when the Sisters come calling and go down and watch the parade. Anyway, they interrupted ‘Peppermint Twist.’ And there I was, listening to this man sound even more embarrassed than I would have been, saying nothing at all.”
“This man meaning Gregor Demarkian,” Glinda said.
“Exactly. My impression was, the Cardinal got him in front of the microphones very much against his will. But he’s coming here anyway. I don’t think that was against his will. I suppose it might have been.”
“I wish I’d had the radio on in the office,” Glinda said. “I was so wrapped up in things here, so worried I wouldn’t get those terrible people out the door in time—”
“You never have to worry about that,” Sam said. “If they give you any problem, you just call me up. I’ll get them out of here in no time.”
“You’ll get me fired,” Glinda said. She looked down at the book in her hand. It was duly stamped and ready to go, but Sam didn’t seem to have noticed. She closed the cover and pushed it away from her. “I
Glinda got her camel’s hair coat from the coat rack in the office’s far left corner, slung it over her arm, and headed out to the desk. Her purse was right there, under the counter next to the extra cards for the check-out pockets. Sam heard her coming and shifted on his feet, standing up a little straighter.
“There you are,” he said. “You were wandering around in there so long, I was afraid you’d taken ill.”
“I’m fine,” Glinda said, and didn’t say: You ought to know, because you could look through the glass at everything I did. Sam had been in and out a lot in the past week—he’d even formally introduced himself and asked her to call him “Sam”—and in that time Glinda had learned something about him she never would have guessed. Sam Harrigan was a socially awkward man. She would have thought he had too much experience for that, what with doing a television show and going on book tours and having movie stars wander in and out of his house, but there it was. Every time he tried to talk to her, he seemed to lose any sense of what he ought to do with his hands.
Glinda put her coat down across the check-out desk and took the book out of his hand. It was called Edible Fungi of North America, and she couldn’t believe he needed it. She couldn’t believe he didn’t own it. She opened its back cover, took out its card, and went searching through the center drawer for her date stamp.
“So,” she said, “you were saying. You were listening to the radio on your way into town—”
Sam shifted on his feet again. “I was listening to ‘Golden Oldies Rock and Roll,’ to tell you the truth. That’s how you know you’re living in a small town, when they interrupt ‘Peppermint Twist’ for a press conference by a Cardinal Archbishop. I was speechless.”
“It’s a Colchester station,” Glinda said drily, “and it’s owned by Catholics. For all you know, the Archdiocese has a piece of it.”
“I try to know as little as possible about the Archdiocese,” Sam said. “It’s like St. Patrick’s Day. Ever since those idiots got caught down in Queens, trying to supply arms to the Irish Republican Army, all I do for St. Pat’s is contribute to the mission fund when the Sisters come calling and go down and watch the parade. Anyway, they interrupted ‘Peppermint Twist.’ And there I was, listening to this man sound even more embarrassed than I would have been, saying nothing at all.”
“This man meaning Gregor Demarkian,” Glinda said.
“Exactly. My impression was, the Cardinal got him in front of the microphones very much against his will. But he’s coming here anyway. I don’t think that was against his will. I suppose it might have been.”
“I wish I’d had the radio on in the office,” Glinda said. “I was so wrapped up in things here, so worried I wouldn’t get those terrible people out the door in time—”
“You never have to worry about that,” Sam said. “If they give you any problem, you just call me up. I’ll get them out of here in no time.”
“You’ll get me fired,” Glinda said. She looked down at the book in her hand. It was duly stamped and ready to go, but Sam didn’t seem to have noticed. She closed the cover and pushed it away from her. “I
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